Catalyst
by Chiisana Minako
Summary: There are times -when you're being particularly stubborn- you just need a whack in the head, figuratively speaking. Who'd have thought even you, Patrick Jane, wouldn't see it coming? Or did you? - Jane/Lisbon Oneshot.


**Catalyst – by Chiisana Minako**

**A/N: **Hola! I started this mooonths ago and then got blocked, and it was left there, gathering imaginary dust amongst my computer files.

It's been a while without writing anything, so I must confess: I'm nervous. _Very nervous_. Anyway, I'd like to thank my lovely beta **Yaba** for handling perfectly the task of being supportive while still making me a better writer.

I want to dedicate this to the awesome **ShunKickShunKers**, since she's always poking me into writing and cheering me up, if it wasn't for her, this would still be unfinished and 2000 words shorter.

Remember: Very nervous author.

I really hope you like it : )!

* * *

><p>.<p>

It's not about wanting; it's about _having_ as a person.

And you've got nothing.

You used to have everything; a beautiful wife, the most adorable daughter and both of them loved you. A big house, any need you could possibly have covered. From the outside, you could have been the picture of perfection, the three of you in one of those happy family portraits that come with the frame.

Of course it wasn't _really_ _that_ perfect, you and your wife argued from time to time, especially when it came to your _psychic_ job, but despite everything, you made it work. You still loved each other, cherished your daughter and wanted to be happy.

Maybe you wanted to be happy a little too much to _actually enjoy_ your happiness while it lasted.

Everyone knows what happened one Thursday afternoon, _because of you_. You have an outstanding memory; you pick up on the little things. Always have, always will.

But there is not a day that goes by that you don't curse your skills, even a little. You suppose it is fair punishment for what you caused, that you remember the font of the letter taped to the door, how the bodies of the ones you love more than anything were laid on the floor. The ones you still hold in your heart, both the strings that keep you together and the thorns that hurt the pieces. Their fair hair soaked in blood, their toenails red, the fairytales book your daughter loved falling asleep to, discarded in the corner.

You wish that when you close your eyes you could push the images away. At the same time, you know you shouldn't, so you're always silently grateful when a new case comes along: new details to analyze, new people, new things to do, a new puzzle to solve. When a case is too easy, though, it bothers you a bit because it's not a challenge, but most of the annoyance is because the distraction is over, and you are left in the shadows of your memories again. They comfort you in a strange way, but sometimes it's too much.

You need to breathe.

So, you keep telling yourself that your need for air, for something different is the reason you love so much to tease a certain woman. It's not because her eyes are so expressive that they give her away even when she tries not to, or because your smile is a little more genuine when she's smiling back at you. What you can safely admit it's that is very amusing when you manage to get her on your side, to play your game. It's a challenge you are not able to resist, even if you wanted to.

At times, your desire to help her gets in the way of what's supposed to be your main goal in life, what your entire existence is supposed to be about. You want justice, as do a lot of people, nothing wrong with that. Even if it's not the usual way _justice_ is interpreted, there's an exception to every rule and you're pretty certain this is it.

And you know _she_ strongly disagrees. You're sorry, but there's nothing you can do about it, the decision has been made, you won't let anyone –not even her- get in the way of what you have planned for Red John.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

(Never mind that she already managed to get in your way, without even trying.)

When Lisbon joins you in the observation room, you don't think much of it. A new suspect must be arriving soon. However, when she locks the door behind her, you raise an eyebrow at her, ready to tease with a flirtatious comment. All joking words die on your tongue when she starts undoing the buttons of her blouse.

Tearing your eyes away from her deft hands before they can reach her chest, you find she's intently looking at you, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Lisbon… what are you doing?" you manage to sputter surprisingly in one go.

"Shh..." she gestures with a finger to her lips, using that same hand to undo her bun.

Shrugging off her shirt, her dark hair falls free to her shoulders, and you're suddenly petrified. You can't stop your eyes from wandering lower, is that lace? _Oh God…_

Her smile grows as she backs you against a wall; you're so lost in her determined eyes, her pale skin, that you almost don't realize when your vest hits the floor. Her fingers graze your chest through your shirt; pulling at the fabric to get it out of your waistband. Once that's accomplished, in one swift move feminine hands slide underneath, touching your back, making your breath catch.

She laughs softly as she presses her chest against yours. You can feel _everything_ through the thin layers between you two, and her wandering hands are not helping at all. You bite your lower lip, trying to fight your body's response to hers, eyes closed shut.

"Don't do that…" she softly whispers. Standing on her tiptoes, she makes you release your lower lip with a delicate movement of her fingers, and then taking your head between her hands forcefully, she kisses you on the mouth, hard.

She doesn't give you any chance to say or do anything. She keeps pushing your body against the wall, increasing the pressure and taking full control. You can't keep yourself from kissing her back with matching hunger, finally giving in to your need to touch her, to feel just how soft her skin really was.

When her hands reach your belt buckle and her lips kiss down your jaw, as exhilarating as it feels, you realize _this must be a dream_. It's just too strange to be true.

Forcing your eyes open, the light hits your sight with such strength that you have to close them again for a few seconds. Realizing your heart rate is a lot quicker than it should be, you take a deep breath and sigh.

Thinking _this_ way about her. _Again_.

If you believed in a thing such as karma, you'd say that would be the reason for your unconscious taunting you. Although if you think about it, you _have_ been trying (sort of) to keep your promise of respecting Lisbon's boundaries. Sure, you broke and entered an (empty) house to apprehend a suspect, have lied a few times, and used a corpse to get a confession but that's not really _trouble_. Not on your scale of madness anyway. So, where Lisbon is concerned, there should be no karma involved. Or so you keep telling yourself.

And Lisbon _did _approve of their clever use of the dead man (and even stood up for you against Minelli). You can't suppress the smile starting to form on your lips at the memory.

.

.

What's really taking place escapes your senses, because you can't believe this is real. This _is_ actually happening; her bangs tickling your forehead, her left hand touching your cheek.

_She_ started it.

Sure, you'd been flirting mercilessly with her for the past few days. It was just so amusing to keep playing with fire, with the attraction you know she has for you, while telling yourself it was a way to keep your inappropriate thoughts (dreams) about her at bay. A little dangerous so it was still so daring to do it, but harmless enough; you knew she wasn't going to act on it. She was already married to her job.

You can't begin to explain this to yourself. You, _you_ of all people knew that this could happen. You might have had been covering your eyes, but you knew damn well to where you were walking.

Lisbon.

She's kissing you, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow but quiet. Telling yourself you're not encouraging her, you're not answering her gesture; you open your mouth and let her slowly deepen the kiss.

She's being... sweet. Delicate.

You can handle the lust, the primal instinct; you had been doing that for years, as it wasn't the first time something like that happened to you. But this soft... you can't handle soft. You can't handle feelings, or rather _her_ being this soft. As though she is showing you a different part of herself, not by words or looks but by the way she brushes her lips against yours, how her fingers gently graze your cheek, barely moving.

With a barely audible hum, you feel the moisture of her tongue on yours, and you have no recollection of when you started kissing her back at the same slow pace.

The taste of her is intoxicating, and you don't need to be a genius to realize it's going to be addictive. You can't let this happen; you already feel how she's getting to you, the _real_ you, the one who knew that you were silently, secretly hoping something like this to happen.

You can't have that.

Experiencing an unfamiliar form of guilt, you nip at her bottom lip, quickly changing the pace, swallowing her surprised gasp and pushing at her shoulders without breaking the kiss. If you know Lisbon like you do, you know she will stop you when she realizes what you're aiming at.

She surrenders to the pressure against her body, urging her to lie down on the couch, and you're one second behind, knowing you don't need any more convincing from yourself to do what you're doing. Both your lips will be swollen by tomorrow morning, but you _can't_ stop. Feeling how she matches your rhythm perfectly, her hands on your neck, your shoulders, you really don't _want_ to stop.

What have you gotten yourself into?

Despite the late hour and all, it's _her office_. She won't break _that_ code. You curse inwardly when you realize that thought only makes you want her even more. You press your body harder on top of hers. She_ will stop you._

A whimper escapes her lips at your weight threatening to crush her, but instead of slowing her down, it only seems to heighten her senses even more. She arches her back against your chest, the pressure going to your hips next. You have to break contact with her mouth to bite your lip, catching your breath, trying to remind yourself that this is _not (really)_ going to happen.

_(Please.)_

The wandering hands that were dangerously fumbling with the buttons of your vest come back to your neck when you start kissing hers, paying close attention to how her panting increases when you nibble at the skin next to her shoulder, where the chain to her cross lies.

_(Please, stop me.)_

You don't know if you should be thanking or cursing her low cut shirt, because it allows you to keep kissing your way down to her chest; she's not helping you with her ragged breathing, her hands still keeping your upper body pressed to her, urging you to continue. This is _not_ good.

In spite of what your reasoning tells you, you find yourself roaming one of your hands up her stomach, lightly grazing her breasts, pulling at the neckline of her shirt to have a wider area to taste. You're desperately trying not to undress her, you still hold hopes that she'll come to her senses, she'll push you away, get mad, embarrassed. You'll tease her the next day and that'd be the end of it.

Didn't someone say you were the master of denial a few years back?

When Lisbon moves somewhat suddenly beneath you, you sigh both in relief and disappointment, before realizing that your distraction allowed her to roll you over, so she can straddle _you_ this time. A shiver runs down your spine when you see how she looks at you like a predator. Your eyes travel down to her mouth and she licks her lips, smiling, as if knowing you're following her every movement. With a swift move, she throws her shirt to the floor; even if you feel a slight déjà-vu coming, you can't help staring and gulping nervously.

_There will be no stopping you._

She takes your lips this time, ripping your vest open a few seconds later. You marvel at the feeling of her skin beneath your fingertips. It really is that soft. Suddenly you want the control back and try to shift places by turning, but she prevents you from doing so by shifting her hips against your growing arousal. You're not able to stop the groan that escapes your lips; you really underestimate this woman sometimes. Of course _she_ would be bossy in bed.

You can't help but smile at the thought. Your right hand finds what you were looking for, unhooking her bra. She smiles a devious grin, raising an eyebrow.

You're certainly up for the challenge.

_You weren't going to be stopped._

_._

_.  
><em>

As they say, life goes on. You're not sure what that means, not anymore. Should you forget what's already in the past and keep moving on? Isn't that frivolous? You certainly couldn't –wouldn't- do that. You shouldn't be dwelling on such mindless things, but it is like you had suffered from a blow to the head after that night. Your thoughts are in disarray, and you're not used to that.

_Lisbon avoided __you__. _

But you acted like you always do. If they say _no_ without proper reason, you say _yes_, and you'll say it with such confidence it'll sound right. She tried to stay away from you, but of course you wouldn't let her. Whenever possible you invaded her personal space, not enough to be noticed by the untrained eye, but just enough to make her raise her eyes at you, as if asking what you're doing. Make her aware of your presence, close to her; brushing her hand while passing her a case file, smiling at her annoyed expression when you did so.

It never occurred to you that maybe she _wanted_ to be chased, even if just a little?

You don't stop to analyze it. More than that, you don't _want_ to analyze it, it's a dangerous road. That night though, you couldn't stop yourself from wondering that maybe, just _maybe_...

You tried not to think about it, you really did. But how could you not? How? Just hours ago you had her, all of her. At first, you had wrestled for control just because it's in your nature to always do what _you_ want, but as the minutes passed you did it because you loved to see her pleased expression when, once again, she didn't relent to you. Sense of time was really forgotten, if it wasn't for your peculiar attention to detail that made your eyes drift to her office's clock before drifting off to sleep, you wouldn't have known that it had been _hours._

No wonder you had so many memories of that night. Foreplay had been way longer that you thought it would be –not that you minded- and for once, _nothing_ went as you planned. You kept trying to forget about it, ever since you woke up on the red couch without her, hours later. But your sore neck kept reminding you of how she bit you, trying to relieve the pressure as she moved on top of you.

A sigh of frustration leaves your lips.

You see her in her office, working nonstop, as always.

_What could she possibly take from a man who had nothing to give?_ You try to brush the thought away, you know Lisbon is far from perfection; however, you're ten times further away, if not more.

Logically, you know you can't pursue this. _You can't care. _You don't – but you do. It can't work, it won't. It's like a mantra you keep repeating over and over again. Because you can't do this to her, much less to _them_.

Watching how the teabag turns the hot water a shade darker in your teacup seems the most interesting thing in the world right now. You've been distracted lately, needing to actually pay attention to make tea just the way you like it; something that was instinctual before now requires actual attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lisbon pouring decaf coffee in her mug, despite the fact that you haven't messed with the tags this time, and the regular coffee pot is almost full. You can't help smiling a little, frowning when you realize you lost the focus on your tea-making process. As though she knows what just happened to you (what _she does_ to you), her lips tilt upward slightly before she leaves.

.

.

There is a lot in life that is not fair. That's your first thought when Lisbon is found the main suspect in a murder investigation that, oddly enough, you (and the team) were called to look into, and ended up finding the corpse.

The irony that your first instinct was that she was being _blamed _and not really_ guilty_ doesn't elude you. But you brush it away, just as you have been doing with so many things lately. You have tried to detach yourself from her, before it's too late. You have to.

However, when she starts slowly breaking apart, you can't stay away much longer. You're picking up little signs of trust in her demeanor, maybe silent help requests, such as her allowing your presence when Bosco started interrogating her. You didn't even hesitate in covering for her, despite the fact that _everyone_ seemed to think she was lying.

"I didn't lie. He made risotto." she says, as if that is convincing enough.

"Now, this is insulting. You gonna continue lying to me?"

A few years back, perhaps even last year, Lisbon could have been surprised by your bluntness. She's not anymore, she matches your stare with her own; it's only for a few seconds, but it seems like she's searching for an ulterior motive in your probing. Apparently you pass her test, because she breaks eye contact to confess that she doesn't really remember, and you know how hard is for her to admit it.

She rejects your offer to hypnotize her as you predicted, but you put the idea in her head, and that's what matters now. It will take time, it is _Lisbon_ after all.

.

.

When a woman passes by with electric equipment towards one of the interrogation rooms, you know Lisbon is taking the polygraph. Seeing Bosco lurking outside the window, you silently wonder if she asked him to or not.

.

.

You thought you'd feel victorious when she finally came to you (and you do), but seeing her so close to breaking is not a pretty sight, and you find yourself feeling bad for her, _just a little_. You're so used to see her in control of her emotions that the sight of her looking so lost tugs at your heart, despite your greatest effort to ensure that it doesn't affect you.

As soon as you enter her home, you can't help looking around a bit, picking up details is your specialty after all, but her shaky voice reminds you why you're here. She seems so upset when you tell her you're not going to hypnotize her, but she has her guard up because it's you two alone, _in her house_, so you have to trick her into a trance state.

Before her eyes finally close and you command her to sleep, you catch a glimpse of how tired, how scared, how desperate she really is. When her head lands on your shoulder, you instantly remind yourself that you have a job to do, and put your own walls back up.

This is something serious and you know it, yet you can't help yourself and ask her about the secret music she dances to sometimes. The tiny movement of her head after saying yes, that little smile on her lips that you haven't seen in a while makes you smile too, a reprieve from something much sinister.

Even if you want with all your might to stay as detached as possible, not to care, you're not immune to her pain.

You never thought you'd see her cry.

.

.

It's not surprising that your little act to get Minelli to send Dr. Carmen to Lisbon's house comes easily for you. It's just a matter of remembering how helpless and awkward you felt when you left her apartment and gave her the space she asked for, when you had yet to put all the pieces together.

Hours later, you know she's not lying when _acting_ for the doctor. Not all of it is true, but it's not all false either. Most people would find what she's saying, this truth about her disturbing or maybe worrying, but you're glad she gets to say it out loud, and then pretend it was all an act. The catharsis of saying it without facing the consequences of such an admission is rather brilliant actually.

The moment you compliment her on her deception skills and she smiles, proud and just a little shy, you can't contain your amusement, the pride that inevitably shines in your gaze.

When Lisbon punches Carmen, you know _she_'s back.

.

.

It's such a beautiful night.

The perfect night to send an incriminating creep to prison, you muse, as you turn around the corner back to the CBI. Holding the paper bag from Marie's, you enter the elevator, a small smile on your lips, already picturing Lisbon's face when you offer her the sugary treat she's been craving for days.

But then you notice she's not alone in her office.

Your first instinct is to eavesdrop, if only because you need to assess the situation before you barge in.

You don't have a perfect view from where you're standing, but you don't want to get caught, so you settle for tilting your head just a little so you can see Lisbon behind Bosco's thicker frame. You don't see his face, but his body language reveals everything.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

A second later, he's invading her personal space; placing his hand on the box she was resting her fingers on, way too close for your liking. She draws her hand back and lifts her shoulders a little, clearly uncomfortable with the proximity, and you wonder how can that man be so dense, and why isn't she stopping his advances.

You don't stop to analyze why both these thoughts make you so mad.

(You know why. You've known for a while now.)

You also know she's strong, _tough as nails_, but something deep down, whether it is chivalry or something else, tells you she could use a little help right now. And this kind of rescue _is_ your specialty.

Keeping your steps silent until you almost reach Lisbon's office, you make your last three steps strong and loud to make your presence more obvious and intrusive.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No," Bosco answers quickly. Too quickly.

"Goodnight, Lisbon" he says on his way out of the office. You can practically hear the displeasure in his tone, which of course pleases _you_ greatly.

"Night, Sam," you say as innocently as possible. He won't buy it, but there's a slight chance she might.

"Doughnuts, from Marie's."

You hand her the bag.

Lisbon looks so relaxed, her blouse untucked from her pants, her sleeves rolled up; not even questioning your reasons for being here so late.

"I didn't see it, of course…" you start the thought out loud, watching her so intent on finding the best doughnut –you got three flavors that she likes. You don't know whether she's feigning ignorance over what just happened between her and Bosco, or if she really doesn't know.

"What?" she asks before taking a bite of the chosen pastry.

"He's in love with you," you say, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. It's not a simple guess, you're sure of this.

"Don't be silly," Lisbon looks so cute talking with her mouth full, you can't resist teasing her.

"I know, hard to fathom, but… there's no accounting for taste, is it?"

"Hush!" you catch the bag she throws at you, and by the look in her face you know she's not really mad. You leave her to finish restoring her office.

Actually, you realize very little could anger her right now.

With that thought, you stop in your tracks and peek back into her office. You're so glad she's okay, that she's back emanating that sense of confidence she always has.

But also, you know you're checking her out.

After she puts one of her diplomas in place, close to the broken window, Lisbon realizes you're still there. Her mouth is still full, so she settles for looking at you questioningly. She makes such a comical image, you can't keep the smile off your face.

Giving her one final inquisitive look, you decide to just go for it.

"One more thing, Lisbon…" you take a few steps in her direction, silently glad when she doesn't flinch or seem awkward at _your_ proximity, merely tilting her head upwards so she can look at your face. The challenge in her eye motivates you to keep going.

You pause for effect before leaning closer, purposely grazing your cheek against hers, enjoying the feel of her soft skin. You smile as you feel rather than hear the low hum she releases without even noticing and angle your head so you nuzzle just below her ear before whispering,

"You're _mine_."

There's an emphasis so strong in the last word, it catches you by surprise. For a second you fear you went too far, that you're going to break the good mood she's in, if only because you felt the need to tell her what you think.

"Oh really?" she almost chuckles. You smile in spite of yourself, because you were being serious, and Lisbon seems to find this incredibly amusing.

"Yes." You want to be serious yet your tone is playful, matching hers.

She smiles.

The only reason you've restrained yourself from trying to touch her waist or bite her neck in retaliation when she moves closer is because you're still in the office. Not that you care for such trivial things, but you know she does. Your chances at success would be slim, at best.

You glance around to see if the two of you are alone.

You are.

It's late. _She_ shouldn't even be here –and definitely not Bosco, for that matter. You stop your mind from going off on tangents, and stop avoiding the issue, what you've wanted to tell her for a while now.

Taking her hand in yours, you smile when you notice she's checking their surroundings too. Once her eyes go back to yours, you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You close it and try again. Nothing.

"I…"

"I know." Her voice is soft, and when she doesn't break eye contact, you know she's being truthful. You can see the recognition in her eyes, for once, it seems like you're the open book and she's the one doing the reading. It should scare you more than it does, that she knows you well enough to _read your mind_ when you show the tiniest chink in your armor.

You've never had the opportunity to stare into her eyes for so long before, the light shades of brown in her green orbs threatening to break your resolve, empty your mind of anything else. Fleetingly, you think she might be seeing more than she bargained for.

So intense and soul-searching, her current gaze reminds you of the way she looked at you before she kissed you the first time, and how it was shocking and how inevitable at once.

Her thumb is now caressing your hand softly, even when you were the one to take her hand to reassure _her_, she's the one soothing you. It feels foreign, being able to feel this warmth she's willing to give you, but it just makes your eyes soften even more. It triggers something you thought you lost along with your beloved family years ago. The thought breaks the spell, and you feel that you've revealed too much, even if you didn't say anything.

(You just let her see.)

You stare at the floor for a few seconds, reassembling the mask. You give her one last reassuring smile, and as you're turning to leave, you hear her.

"Jane?"

You don't have a chance to say anything because she silences you with one sly look, before standing on her tiptoes and giving you an open mouthed kiss, brushing your lower lip with her tongue, her hands fisting your jacket the way she knows drives you insane.

"Thank you."

The '_you're welcome'_ dies in your throat, because you still haven't quite recovered, but you conceal it well. It lasted just a few seconds, but it's been weeks, over a month since you felt her so close, you can't be blamed for feeling just a little bit inebriated. Totally absent-minded, you lick your lips.

Lisbon is at her desk now, getting her jacket. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and you find that incredibly attractive, even more so knowing what her body language is telling you.

"Your place or mine?"

She doesn't answer right away, doesn't look at you, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up, just a little, a slight paranoia that you read her wrong ensues.

"Do you even need to ask?" she glances at you over her shoulder, grabbing her keys and giving you one of her mischievous smiles, as she exits her office.

You've never been happier to follow her.

.

.

Despite your eagerness to let her finish what she started at the office, when you reach her apartment door, you're not tugging at each other's clothes, not trying to undress each other. You're not kissing; in fact, you're barely touching each other.

For all your flirty exchanges at CBI, the ride to her place had a calming effect; it even made you both a little bit nervous.

But her hand is warm against yours, and that is more than enough for you.

.

.

It's been hours since you two first entered her home, and yet if you hadn't seen the clock on her wall, you wouldn't have noticed. You've just entered her bedroom, you hear the soft _thud_ of the door closing behind you and you can almost _feel_ her grin.

You smile as Lisbon peels the jacket off your body, even though she still has hers on. She doesn't lose time and before you realize it, your vest is gone too. It's only fair that when you take off her blazer, you start at the base of her neck and slowly push the material down her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind.

She bites her lip and lets out a soft sigh; you can't keep your hands from roaming her back up and down, wanting to break her resolve. The fabric of her shirt is so thin, you can _feel_ her bra beneath your fingers. The temptation to unclasp it through the fabric is powerful, but you enjoy the slow pace she's set way too much to tamper with it.

You see how the dim light illuminates her features, her jaw, her collarbone as you're unbuttoning her shirt, taking more time that necessary when undoing the buttons near her breasts. Green meets blue, and her eyes darken as you run your fingers across her skin. Her intake of breath as you graze her breasts with the tip of your fingers is more than enough incentive to keep faking trouble with those buttons only to touch her skin again.

Your shirt hangs half open by now, and she takes a break from undressing and tugs at the fabric, pulling your body closer to hers just as her shirt reaches the floor. Your eyes meet again before she tilts her head up so you can give her the kiss she's asking for, slow and soft. In response, you can feel how she sighs again and melts into your arms as your tongue touches hers. In sync as you are, you both lean back a little to change the angle and meet again in a languid kiss that slowly becomes more aggressive. She begins nipping lightly at your lips and you feel yourself grow harder, incredibly turned on by her display of dominance. Your hands dip lower seemingly of their own accord.

Her arms strongly surround your lower back to increase the pressure of your hips on hers and the moan low in your throat is smothered by her mouth. She doesn't release your lips and apparently is bent on driving you wild as her hands keep pushing you closer to her.

You can tell she's not as in control as she thinks she is, the kiss is getting interrupted because she can't keep her breath even, and you seize that moment to break the contact and look at her. You take in her parted, swollen lips,, the delicate curve of her neck, the heaving of her chest and the cleavage her black bra has on display. She seems to be looking at you as you commit everything to memory, and her hands give your butt a squeeze to remind you she's not staying still much longer.

Smiling at her obvious intent, you go back to her challenging eyes, and somehow it reminds you of all the other times she's looked at you like that under different circumstances, opening a gateway to a lot of other _things_ you're not ready to deal with yet. The feeling suddenly becomes overwhelming, your hands settle around her waist and upper back, and your kisses land on both her cheeks, her forehead, before tucking her head into your shoulder and hugging her tightly.

You know she probably doesn't understand what's happening, you don't expect her to, so it catches you by surprise when Lisbon hugs you back, her arms vertical on your back and her hands grasping your shoulders, hanging on to you.

You smell her hair with such adoration, she probably knows you're not letting her go any time soon.

If ever.

.

.

.


End file.
